Incarnate
by kotaou
Summary: A separate take on Apparitions, as detailed in TWCH. - Aomine Daiki is thrown into the convoluted system of American high school when his hard work at the Apparition Bureau of Investigations earns him a healthy reward straight from the Kaizer's mouth. And while he's fighting off the prejudice, he's been asked to scour his new home for the missing Fire Apparition paragon Pyros.
1. Chapter 1

**Had this one brewing about for a few months now and decided to try belting out a few chapters to get back into the groove of things. This entire story was born from a headcanon of Kagami driving a black Ford F-150. Completely shameless, I know. Fear not, I have not forgotten Trust Without Cynicism is Hollow. I'll be pulling that one off the back burner very soon.**

**Notes relevant to this chapter:**  
**Paragon: a model or pattern of excellence or of a particular excellence**  
**Molniya [mul-knee-eh]: Russian for lightning**  
**Kōri: Japanese for ice**  
**Schatten [sha-t'n]: German for shadow**  
**Terra: Italian for earth**  
**Aéras [eh-rahs]: Greek for wind**  
**Pyros-original pŷr [pee-r]: Greek for fire (pronounced as pie-ros in-story by English speakers)**

* * *

PROLOGUE

Casimir, Russia

3000 B.C.

Molniya's mind churned as she stared blearily at the same iron-bolted door that had kept her contained far too long. How many years had passed? Twenty? Fifty? Hard to say.

By the look of the withered corpse slumped in a timber chair nearby, it had to have been at least a mortal lifetime. The skin had become ashen and emaciated, hair brittle and lackluster. It had been a fine body. A tall woman with stern features but mischievous eyes, she was youthful and spirited, endowed with a beauty that captivated both sexes. For a time Molniya had allowed lovers, indulged carnal pleasures. But that was before the incident that sealed her fate and imprisoned her in this metal chamber. Only necessities had been furnished within. Candles tossed limpid pools of light through the twelve-by-twelve foot chamber. A narrow bed, a bookshelf replete with material relevant to her interests, and a table for meals hugged the walls. Ones served through a slot in the door. Simple accommodations. Though Molniya, at first, had considered herself lucky. Law provided fellow murderers with far less.

Though, unlike felons, petty or deranged, her cage possessed no windows.

Absolutely no contact with the outside world.

And it was fashioned not to protect her keepers from harm.

It was a safety measure to effectively disable the power of Molniya, the Lightning paragon.

In the beginning, the supreme force of the world created from her own body tangible spirits in the form of elements, which became her children. Schatten, an agent of darkness, came into life first, a solemn spirit. From the ice came Kōri, passive but an impenetrable force. Aéras of the wind molded the earth to create Terra's body. From the skies, in a brilliant flash of light, was birthed Molniya and from her creation came the final child of Mother Nature, the untamable blaze of Pyros. Though all given life by a common mother, Kōri and Schatten distinguished themselves apart from the intimate connection bonding wind to earth and lightning to fire.

Early man were marveled by the spirits and offered their mortal bodies as physical vessels. The effect of the spirits in human form upon the civilizations accelerated man's appreciation for them. _Paragon_ was the denomination awarded to them as the six were deified. Offers for possession were copious. Seeing the popularity of their continued existence another six volunteers were chosen and infused with the essence of Mother's powers.

The _Apparitions_ expanded from a simple dozen and flourished into a thriving body in the course of a thousand years. Flesh evolved to compensate the spirits to a three hundred-year lifespan and when life expired, the paragon was reincarnated into a new body, the cycle unbroken. Kingdoms were established to each paragon and human villages blossomed around them, promoting cohabitation. To prevent an imbalance of power, the paragons elected an Apparition within their lands to rule, allowing the selected to determine a system of government and guide the economy. Though, at times, a paragon was born into the role of a sovereign.

Evidence of reverence for the paragons existed in every village in the way of relics, chronicles, paintings, sculptures, tapestries, and shrines. Worship services were offered. Homages paid and holidays dedicated. The Apparitions became entwined with humans.

And not everyone enjoyed the association.

Renegades within the villages responded to the devotion with vandalism, harassment, and in extreme cases murder. With respect to their independent constitutions, the Apparition kingdoms desisted involvement and the aggressors were persecuted separately, no matter the extent of their crime.

Few times did the sovereigns intervene.

But the defacing of several Pyros monuments by a single man became a threat to neutralize. Reports had provided that the offender was mentally unstable and had committed other felonies in the past. Would he assault the recently reborn Pyros? The Lord, head of the Fire Apparition hierarchy, felt so. Authorities within the village were authorized to act and the man was incarcerated.

Molniya, who'd played a part in sealing the lunatic's fate, had been half a century old—considered a teenager to her people—and was delighted to know her infant brother was safe. Pyros was born to a middle class couple within the kingdom that day, a family apart from her own but no less departed. Apparition doctrine, decided by the ancestral paragons, asserted that scions be awarded an identity separate from their legacies. And her brother had been given the name Tora.

Embittered by the punishments incurred over time, and hateful of the Lord who imprisoned him, the man decided that the Apparitions would pay for their transgressions in the only way he could fathom.

Hours after his sentence, the man escaped his cell, found the home of his target, and stole the newborn Tora from his crib.

He decided he would possess this infant's life and become an Apparition himself.

So he carved out and ate the paragon's heart.

Convinced of his inheritance, the man marched to the village square with the corpse, threw it to the ground, and declared his vengeance.

Local authorities arrested and isolated him in an underground cell.

The village was humiliated, pleading to the government to act.

Molniya did not wait for approval.

She stormed the village alone and, in her fury, killed not only the murderer, but destroyed the entire village in a conflagration of lightning.

The reception of her response was unexpected.

Villages of the Fire kingdom became a tumult of discord and revolt.

_How dare Molniya eviscerate an entire community when only a single man was at fault._

_Why did the Kaizer not contain her?_

_Make her answer for her mistake._

Supporters of Pyros and Molniya, both human and Apparition, protested against a wave of dissenters and civil unrest became rampant. The Lightning kingdom was blamed and disputes escalated from simple disturbances to invasions, the loss of life exploding beyond control.

Molniya's anger was further provoked and she subscribed her countrymen to retaliate.

Not much persuasion was needed.

The people of Pyros waged war against Molniya and the Lightning kingdom.

And the other paragons rushed to mitigate the situation.

But Molniya was inconsolable, driven by sorrow. Aéras and Terra failed to earn her attention and their intrusion aggravated Molniya. She threatened to harm them if they intervened. Schatten stepped up to talk her down—hopeful that her respect for his seniority remained—and expressed his own sadness at the loss of a fellow paragon. And that was something Molniya did not want to hear.

She slaughtered Schatten in her rage.

Kōri, Terra, and Aéras acted fast, combining their efforts to seal Molniya in an earthen casket that Kōri bundled in thick sheets of ice. The paragons crafted a specialized container with four walls of unbroken iron and locked her inside.

Where she resided ever since while the others organized peace.

Few times had she been visited by one of the paragons, all contact established through a glass-barricaded bullseye portal in the door. Schatten was never one of them.

Something that filled her with shame.

She stared ahead from between copper coils. Before her life exhausted, Molniya devised a contraption to sustain her energies, an endeavor completed by shedding slivers of the conductive metal from her meal trays. Two were manufactured and she planted them on the floor and ceiling in the center of the cell. She gyrated between the points in a thick ribbon of bluish white light but as time wore on and her anger ebbed, the stream thinned to a frail series of threads.

The loss of Pyros was more devastating than she could have imagined. And from within this dismal box, she felt nothing of his presence since her confinement. His absence drained her strength enough that she invited death. But would it come?

Her glum thoughts were broken when the portal to her container groaned. Someone was opening it.

The breadth of her light strengthened in anticipation, unsure of whom she was expecting but hopeful to see a familiar face.

Perhaps even her dear brother, resurrected in new flesh.

Aéras, Terra, and Kōri, all wearing a different skin than she last saw, entered.

Schatten's absence hurt but Molniya knew it was justified.

"It's been so long," Terra said. "The Bureau hadn't registered your life force and we were concerned you hadn't passed."

When Molniya was a child, the Apparitions conceived a new branch of government licensed to upholding the laws of the kingdoms both secularly and internationally, including the confirmation of resurrected paragons. Proctors routinely tested the power signatures of every newborn and compared the readings to a specified scale. Every hospital was subject to the investigations.

"Not concerned enough." She couldn't help sounding bitter. "As you can see, my body has long decayed. Were you simply hoping I would reincarnate so you could condemn me to this prison once again as a feeble infant?"

The paragons' faces collectively fell into a mask of despondency. Which surprised her.

So she asked, "What is it?"

Kōri spoke first. "Please, don't confuse our negligence as cruelty."

"An unprecedented phenomenon happened," Terra interjected. "All of our attention was diverted to solving it."

"And you require a felon's assistance?"

Kōri's face scrunched unappreciatively.

"We actually came to apprise you of our findings." Even in a new body, Aéras was sparse with words and the familiarity was strangely comforting.

"So speak them."

Terra stepped further inside and straightened, seemingly steeling himself for the report. "Pyros has not yet reincarnated."

Molniya's current hiccupped, the jagged angular line of her body bowing radically for a moment.

Did that bastard really erase her dear brother forever?

She needed to know, "How long have I been here?"

"Three hundred and twelve years." Aéras again.

She ingested the degree of her isolation. Surprisingly no fury came. Only a sudden affirmation. Pyros was never coming back, his spirit gone. A paragon was incapable of deferring rebirth. It had only ever been theorized that a paragon would truly cease to exist. Was this why she hadn't intercepted a hint of her brother's life for all these years? Perhaps it was the time to surrender it all.

Without Pyros, her existence was incomplete.

Lightning without heat was merely a bright flash.

And that light would now fade into nothing.

Her form reduced to a ribbon, melancholy stalling her motion to a wobble.

"But his power remains," Kōri said.

Molniya perked but it did not show. "Are you certain?"

They all nodded.

"Fire Apparitions continue to be born, their power unhindered," Terra said. "The Bureau conducted an investigation to explain the anomaly. Their theory is that Pyros' spirit inhabited his killer's body. You terminated that man within hours of the transfusion. Forcing Pyros to recycle just shortly after his birth."

Molniya said nothing. Neither did Aéras or Kōri.

"We believe your intervention sent Pyros into hibernation."

It wouldn't be the first occurrence. Two other cases were documented, affirmed by the Bureau upon thorough scrutiny. Fatalities sustained post-birth, pre-death, or during a near-death experience, when the vessel was stressed and vulnerable, proved to be cause.

But _was_ her brother still out there, somewhere?

She chose to voice her uncertainty. "Are you positive you perceived the readings correctly?"

"They are unmistakable, Molniya," Terra said. "Pyros lives, waiting for an appropriate scion."

The current brightened a fraction as her worries were slaked. If even a little.

She trusted her fellow paragons. But she needed to ascertain the truth herself.

"May I go outside?"

There was not a moment of deliberation. All of her contact with them before now was epitomized by distrust, none of them willing to endanger themselves, to breach the defense of the metal portal and approach her. She regretted her selfishness, her ineptitude to compartmentalize her emotions. Redemption had been her goal all those years ago and she was the one who allowed herself to spiral out of control, incite an uprising that led to a war with an incalculable body count, and kill a fellow paragon. That Aéras, Kōri, and Terra came to her unguarded spoke volumes.

And if they allowed her the chance, she would repair the damage she caused in a weak moment of vice.

Terra and Aéras detached the copper coils while maintaining her connection to them. Kōri accepted them between her hands and followed the sibling paragons as they exited the cell.

Molniya was brought to a knoll beyond Casimir, the capital of the Lightning kingdom and took in the almost forgotten sensation of nature. Her pulse invigorated to a healthy thickness and shine, the sheet of gray overhead accelerating the good feeling. True to her compatriots' words, Pyros' signature remained. Like a faint tingle, hardly accessible but still existent.

"I'd like to stretch," she said, spurs splitting from her form.

Kōri nodded and raised the coils above her head, directing Molniya to the overcast.

She darted free and sunk into the clouds. Purplish white light strobed within a moment later and then a columnar bolt crashed down. More strikes occurred in the distance, reaching to barely discernible flashes on the horizon. The episode lasted for a solid minute, then the sky quieted and Molniya returned to the coils. The sickly mien of her light was gone, electricity pulsing between the two points erratically yet with control.

"My brother lives," she said. "And if I may be released, I will rejuvenate and join you all to search for him."

"Of course, Molniya," Terra said, and the smile creasing his mouth filled her with warmth.

She was not foolish enough to believe her sins would be forgiven, responsibility disregarded.

She would rekindle the confidence of her fellow paragons.

Cooperation with the Bureau and kingdoms was a given.

The only uncertainty in her mind rested with Schatten.

And she hoped that, someday, they would find peace again.

As light and darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Typed up a bit of material on this one while lamenting my dissociation from TWCH, though I also have a slight cushion prepared for that story as well that I've to sift through. I'm eager to explore this avenue for the Apparitions and I hope you all find something to enjoy about it. : )**

**EDIT: Corrected dates and times because my math blows. 1975 has become 1976.**

* * *

ONE

Arlington, Florida

October 17, 2012

Aomine strolled the halls, eyes searching for his destination. The schedule printout folded in half in his hand told him his first period class was held in room 219. And he hadn't a clue how to find it. He wasn't an idiot. The syndication of cardinal numbers reached into the Japanese school system, which he'd been mentored under up until half of his last year of high school.

Not a time he remembered fondly.

The problem came from, what he decided, the American's poor method of organization. He'd scoured two wings of his new academic home, Arlington High School, for the last ten minutes and had yet to breach past one hundred and thirty. Where were the double-digit classrooms?

He hadn't seen any so far. If he didn't get his ass in gear, he'd be late. Ordinarily, tardiness was not a concern. But in this place, encouraging any unnecessary attention was critical if Aomine was to endure his time here.

He stopped beside a glass-encased bulletin board, boasting a plethora of announcements on vibrant paper, none of which he could understand, and thought back to that day just a week ago.

When the Kaizer allowed his displacement from Casimir.

_The Tercentenary ball had a huge turnout, which was to be expected. A celebration dedicated to honoring the paragons that created an untold number of Apparitions. Ones like Aomine. His invitation, though warranted, was something he hadn't planned on accepting. Yet the Kaizer insisted, and so he appeared._

_The ballroom was clogged with all manner of races, one of few times the Apparition kingdoms gathered, forgetting current relationships for a single night in the name of indentured gratitude. From his perch near a towering clerestory window, where lukewarm moonlight filtered in unhampered by shears or curtains, he observed the assembly. A patchwork of golds, reds, greens, and blues, all decked in regal ensembles. Refined but not majestic._

_Aomine'd chosen to attire otherwise, donning his Bureau uniform. A pale blue shirt, brown tie, and navy slacks, complete with a collared windbreaker matching his bottoms. Molniya's insignia—a forked lightning bolt encircled by a pair of rings inscribed with the Russian lettering _МОЛНИ—_blazed above his breast pocket, sandwiching his nametag._

_Against protocol, he had yet to meet with Molniya. Law enforcement officers like himself were required an audience with their paragon. Yet Molniya was forever occupied. He believed other circumstances took priority but he wasn't all that eager, anyway._

_Curious, though, no doubt about that._

_He combed the shifting wall of people for gawkers orbiting an unfamiliar face. Though he reasoned with himself that, realistically, had the ever elusive Molniya shown up the ball attendees would have made a scene about it. The other paragons had performed their dutiful shuffle around the ballroom to address their national leaders. Aomine'd witnessed the procession from within the throng, not obligated to ingratiate himself with Terra, Aéras, Kōri, or Schatten and merely observed the parade. Once they disbanded, Aomine had retreated to the other side of the room, hoping to avoid a run-in with Schatten, though he doubted he'd escaped the Shadow paragons' eyes. He was not yet ready for that reunion._

_"I think this may be the largest outcome to date," a new voice said beside him._

_Aomine jolted at the slackened hazy tone and straightened, facing a man half a head smaller than him, dark shaggy hair dressed neatly. Narrow eyes gleamed beneath a pair of glasses, the mouth crooked in a wry smile. Silver chevrons shouted authority on the lapels of a distinguished sport jacket._

_His humble employer and a royal pain in the ass._

_Commissioner Imayoshi Shouichi._

_"Probably all that Pyros hype," he said, maintaining attention._

_Imayoshi chuckled and flicked his hand. "At ease, Daiki."_

_He unhinged his shoulders and folded his arms, eyes finding the swaying crowd again. Voices intermingled with the soft chorus of strings belting a melodious tune opposite them._

_A comfortable silence hung._

_The company was tolerable but the joviality of celebration was lost on him._

_What did he have to celebrate, given all that had transpired?_

_"The Kaizer was very impressed with your work, I heard."_

_He resisted snorting. "Hard not to be impressed when you shove my achievements under his nose."_

_"Diligence is to be recognized."_

_This time he did snort. "Don't get soft on me, now. We both know you're wiser than that. Hard work doesn't always pay off and you don't earn pats on the back for doing as you're expected."_

_"Laudatory achievements come in many forms."_

_He noticed the suggestive tone to the commissioner's voice and debated grabbing the bait._

_Imayoshi reached out a finger and tapped a badge pinned to his right breast. "Physical statements and promotions aren't the only gestures of appreciation."_

_He wasn't going to let Imayoshi prey on his mind, so he said, "What are you getting at?"_

_"Your penance has been satisfied," Imayoshi said. "A while ago, I think. How long have you worked with us?"_

_He assumed the commissioner meant to exclude his internship and part-time work in high school. "Six years. Why is this important?"_

_"The Kaizer and I have spoken at length about you."_

_A cold feeling flooded his chest. This would either be beneficial or harmful._

_"Daiki," Imayoshi sighed. "It was so long ago and you served out your punishment. Your return to the Bureau expedited your success and earned you a healthy promotion. We believe you deserve a reward for your efforts."_

_He didn't know what to say. In the past he'd shared conferences with the Kaizer over sensitive legal matters and the associations had always been curt and confined to business, always a solid line between government worker and government leader. To know the Kaizer desired repaying him for his services was more jarring than he would have predicted._

_Imayoshi's brow scrunched curiously, clearly awaiting a response._

_Aomine cleared his throat, arms falling to his sides. "So, hypothetically,"—Why was he challenging their charity?—"this reward. What did you two decide?"_

_The commissioner smiled. "A reassignment. Suspension of your duties within the Bureau to pursue any engagement, anywhere."_

_To say he was surprised would be an understatement. And the disbelief brought a reassuring expression to Imayoshi's face._

_Which, strangely, abated nothing._

_"A one hundred percent serious offer."_

_His face dropped into his hands and a heavy breath left him as he processed the possibilities._

_Imayoshi placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and, after steeling himself, Aomine lifted his head._

_"No restrictions?" he asked._

_"None."_

_He had an idea, one that had lurked in the back of his mind for the last thirty-six years__. And however juvenile it may be, he wanted it._

_But that wasn't why he decided to voice it._

_"I'd like to finish high school," he said._

_Imayoshi laughed, a hand shooting to cover the sound. Once he composed himself, he said, "So my earlier disclaimer may be false."_

_He glared._

_"Don't worry." Again with the hand flick. "I admit that I foresaw this outcome and it actually works in both your favor and ours."_

_His stare hardened, knowing exactly who _ours_ was. "Hard to enjoy my vacation if I have homework, _sensei_."_

_"Not homework. The assignment is not only yours. Every investigator and officer is handling the matter."_

_Then it hit him. "Pyros."_

_Imayoshi nodded. "Molniya's probes assured us that a relevant signature exists in the United States. In the southern state of Florida. Attend any school you like and while you embrace academia, look into any clues you find that may lead to narrowing down the identity of Pyros. No deadlines, no checking in. Think of it as extra credit."_

_He couldn't lie, it was an enticing reward._

_There was no question as to his response._

_"I'll take it," he said. "Thank you both."_

_"She would have wanted this for you."_

_Yes, she would have._

_Imayoshi bowed his head and patted his shoulder. "The Kaizer and I will discuss the particulars and brief you." He stepped away, walking backwards, and fanned an arm out at the ballroom. "Until then, let loose. Enjoy yourself."_

Making the decision to continue his education overseas had been easy. Not understanding a lick of English? That was something he'd deferred concern for.

What a moron.

He slumped against the bulletin board casing and crossed his feet, eyes tracing the paper. No way was he finding this place without consulting another student, a passing faculty member, or a patrolling officer.

That was a mind-boggling idiosyncrasy of the American education system that he opted not to understand. Where there were badges and uniforms resided a potential threat to be neutralized.

He fished into his pocket for his cell phone, a replacement that was compatible with America's mobile network, and checked the display for the time.

8:00 AM.

According to the schedule, first period had been in session for ten minutes.

He groaned and dropped his head to the glass.

"Hey."

A voice from behind.

He glanced over his shoulder to see a student approaching and from the look of him he'd managed to piss someone off this morning. At least if Aomine was going by the crumpled shirt and swelling around the left eye and cheek. The newcomer was a tad shorter, his face betraying Asian descent that starkly contrasted to the tight corded braids he sported. What were they called again? Cornrows? What the hell kind of resemblance was there between hair and corn? A set of two silver earrings hugged each ear. Peeking under the hem of a long graphic tee was a revolver belt buckle that anchored knee-torn jeans too far low for Aomine to consider useful. He wondered how the kid swaggered over without them falling.

His hesitation tightened Cornrow's brows impatiently.

"What's a matter, newb? You lost?"

He understood nothing but heard the mockery and smartly deflected it. He flashed the schedule.

"Are you deaf? I asked you a question."

Still he could not reply. Though it was clear that Cornrows was picking a fight.

Why didn't matter and Aomine hoped that if he ignored him, the prick would walk away.

Steely eyes glowed with enlightenment and Cornrows barked a laugh. "Oh, I get it. I got a better look at you now. Real sunbaked for an Asian, darkie. Didn't think they were capable of breeding other monsters out there. Not gonna lie, I almost took you for a black kid."

The influx of English was starting to aggravate him. So he searched his mind for a terse response to transmit the fact that he couldn't communicate. He thought back to his English lessons in Japan and was disturbed at his poor retention. All that tutoring with Tetsu and Satsuki. Essentially meaningless.

"Go away," he said.

Only it came out as _guh ah-way_. And with his baritone, it sounded pitiful.

Cornrows exploded in laughter. "Oh, my god. No way."

Aomine scowled, clenching the schedule hard.

"You expect to learn English and become an upstanding tax-evading immigrant?" Cornrows said after the brunt of his hilarity had waned. "Maybe you're one of those pathetic nerds. Give me that." He snatched the folded page from Aomine's hand.

"What the hell," he snapped, tongue reverting to his vernacular.

He took a step closer and the paper was reeled out of reach. The hand pushed to his chest stirred his anger. A cocky grin set it to a fierce boil.

"What're you gonna do, cry?"

More of middle school came back to him. "That is mine."

His botched pronunciation provoked Cornrows into another fit that was more screeching than laughing.

Enough of this. Detective or not, this punk ran out of chances.

He stretched for the schedule again and Cornrows slid it behind his back.

"Go back to your island, Yao Ming."

Aomine didn't hesitate.

He swung his right arm across his chest and viciously backhanded Cornrows.

His adversary whipped around, releasing the page as he plummeted to the floor.

The prize was retrieved after a moment, where he allowed his heart to calm. Cornrows remained still but feeble nasal inhaling told him he'd knocked the kid out. Though he was certain, he toed the boy's leg anyway and Cornrows groaned.

Good enough for him.

An officer entered the hall, carrying a metallic jingle with her steps, and paused, surveying the scene.

Okay, not so good.

He displayed his hands in surrender.

Her dark aging face tightened in scorn and she reached for her belt as she skated close. "You stay there."

The tone and dutiful march were received and he remained still.

From her waist came a handheld radio that she brought to her mouth as she examined Cornrows. She presumably apprised the recipient on the other side of the channel of the situation and stood. The device was reattached to the belt and she grasped his arm.

Then she led him away from the scene, grip firm in a way he was familiar to exercising himself, and said, "You're in a lot of trouble."

Imayoshi would harangue him for this.

Good thing he didn't have to check in.


	3. Chapter 3

**Enter Kagami and Riko. I didn't feel right just dangling Aomine's introduction, so I compiled an appropriate follow-up chapter from the total 28 pages I have in queue to satisfy myself.**

* * *

TWO

Of the few things he'd come across since his migration to the States, Aomine appreciated that American furniture compensated for larger folk. When the policewoman had swept him into the administration office, she directed him to a line of lobby chairs adjacent to a bowing reception desk. Only after he planted himself did she approach a string-bean-looking kid seated behind the counter, stoop over to mutter a few words, then leave. He assessed the space while he slumped into the barely passable seat cushion, arms spilling into his lap.

Antiseptic was the only acceptable description. Eggshell plaster walls were unblemished by posters, advertisements, or announcements, anchoring only one obscenely large analog clock whose rhythmic cadence did not sound. There was nary a splash of vibrant color anywhere. Just off-white walls, crème-stained tiles, and dismal furniture. Had interior décor been a passion of Aomine's, he may actually feel abashed. He tipped his head back, his skull finding the wall with a gentle tap as he leered over the tall countertop of the reception desk. Twenty feet back he identified workspaces, their contents visible through half-walls of plaster and glass. Hardly private, he thought and wondered the significance of transparency.

He huffed a sigh and eyed the clock again.

8:20 AM.

How long did they expect him to sit here?

It was barely an hour into the day.

What the hell could be occupying the principal's time?

. . .

Kagami silently fumed as he lifted out of the chair and strode to the door, slinging his backpack onto one shoulder. He told himself to just breathe. Simmer down and not let it get to him. The same mantra he'd been repeating for every past incident. Which wasn't easy when his right hand was screaming. And with Principal Aida Riko trailing behind him on their way out of her personal office, he couldn't afford to be hostile.

He pushed the aluminum slab open, stepping aside to allow the petite woman to clear the entrance before releasing it.

She approached a plastic tray on the reception desk and rifled through the submissions for review. Probably more disciplinary complaints. A petulant part of him hoped the offenses, if applicable, were more of Haizaki's work, so that dick would finally face justice.

The thought irked him. But now wasn't the time.

Principal Aida had already dismissed him.

Maybe he would get a chance the next time Haizaki struck.

"Taiga." Her stern voice broke his thoughts. "We're done here. Get to class."

No, he decided.

They weren't done.

"Why isn't he up here getting reamed? He started it."

The stack of papers in her hands was slapped to the laminate countertop and she groaned. "That may be," she said, spinning and leaning against the counter lip, arms folded as either a sign of authority or displeasure—probably both. "But you threw the first punch." She shrugged, arms dropping to clap her dress pants-clad legs. "My hands are tied."

Not this again.

"This is what he does." He was careful to dial down his tone. "Are you seriously not going to intervene because he doesn't hit first?"

Her eyes hardened and she pushed off the desk, posture becoming rigid. "I have enough people to pacify, Taiga. Take a number."

"Principal Aida—"

She raised her hand, fingers and thumb pressed together in a gesture for silence, and said, "Zip it. Control your temper. Be the bigger person and ignore him. You'd probably be the first." She scooped up the discarded pages. "You're excused," she said, motioning with the stack to his injured hand. "Ice that."

He stiffly bobbed his head and headed for the propped open office doors.

Son of a bitch.

. . .

Aomine watched the interaction behind the high-rise of the reception desk, barely able to see a tiny brunette over the lip hashing something out with a student. Whatever they were discussing, the accused wasn't having any of it, his disappointment palpable even through the language barrier.

He wasn't interested in a debate he could not understand but he found himself examining the probable troublemaker under scrutiny. Short choppy hair mutilated with the strangest dye job he'd ever seen. That didn't compare with the forked brows or intense red eyes. This one was probably a hair taller than Cornrows with a meaty build that spoke of dedication to athleticism. Definitely not muscle-building or running; his upper body looked solid but without the obsessive bulge of muscle. Which left sports. With that height, it was either American football or basketball. The sun-kissed skin suggested either.

When he heard the clap of papers and sensed tensions rising, he directed his attention elsewhere. Last thing he wanted was for his _bizarre_ appearance to confound another bigoted American. Even in Japan his abnormal stature and darker skin was approached with gossip and rumor. But back home he could counter the backlash, if provoked to do so. There was a distinction between recognizing a unique characteristic and disparaging the person for it.

"You."

He whipped his head to the sound and spotted that same tiny brunette leaning around the raised counter. She crooked a thin finger at him. From the look on her face and the brooding aura trailing after the departing student, this wasn't looking like a good morning for her. He shared her sentiments.

He rose and slid the abused schedule into his back pocket as he threaded the narrow space between the bank of chairs and crescent countertop of the reception desk. Forked Brows clipped his shoulder upon passing and their eyes met. Aggravation blazed beneath scrunched brows and the curl of his lip kindled a similar irritation in Aomine. The moment was fleeting and a silent agreement passed between them as they continued on their separate paths.

_Stay out of my way._

He neared the little woman who commanded a presence of experience contending with unruly teens, no measure of stress behind her vibrant eyes. She reeled the door that she and Forked Brows had come out of minutes earlier open and tipped her head, gesturing to enter.

Aomine obeyed.


	4. Part One-03

THREE

As Aomine sat in another lobby chair with less padding than before he considered submitting an inquiry into investigating genetic anomalies to explain if a mutation had mysteriously erupted and increased the height average of Japanese males. It had only taken a few seconds after seating him for the principal to figure out that he could not understand English. She'd excused herself, poked her head out of the room, and jabbered a command beyond, then returned to her seat, sinking into it comfortably. Thirty seconds later a boy that Aomine could only describe as a tree ambled inside. The third towering Asiatic person he'd encountered in the last twenty minutes.

The newcomer was tall and broad, with thick arms and large hands. Short messy brown hair topped a face with long features and almond eyes set below a pair of hefty yet tamed brows. From the shoulders hung a loose pink t-shirt and an orange armband snuggled the left sleeve where Aomine could interpret a leg and arm of a capital A. Everything about this guy screamed _big_. But as foreboding as his stature implied he appeared laidback and harmless. What was the word for people like this?

_Gentle giant_. And they may have hit the nail on the head with this one.

Aomine sat with mild irritation as the two bandied words, feeling like an infected kid trapped in a bubble that everyone kept bouncing around, avoiding responsibility. Finally the tree turned to him, a stupidly honest smile stretching his lips, and held out a welcoming hand.

Aomine hesitated, unaccustomed to western greetings, but accepted the offering.

"I'm Kiyoshi Teppei," he said in Japanese. "Aida tells me you've gotten into some trouble already on your first day."

Considering that he'd coldcocked a kid that was an understatement.

"Something like that."

Kiyoshi snickered, arced around him, and plopped onto the neighboring seat.

The principal leaned forward, elbows propped on her chair armrests, fingers woven together. She asked that Kiyoshi understand the extent of the situation from him and translate it to her so the matter could be resolved. So he expounded the affair. How Cornrows approached and taunted him, possibly using derogatory slurs, then appropriated his schedule. With provocation, Aomine reacted and dropped his harasser to the floor. He made sure to express clear intent to disarm, rather than injure. Kiyoshi relayed the information and once he finished, the principal stroked her chin, her other hand drumming the polished armrest.

"Alright," she said and pointed a finger at Aomine but kept her attention on Kiyoshi. "This will be a warning. Daiki's new in this country and misunderstandings are to be expected until he conforms to the language." Kiyoshi was allowed a moment to interpret her words. She looked to him and continued, "But that does not make you immune to disciplinary action. Punching out other students is a violation and will be dealt with severely if you repeat it."

Once he was informed, he took a moment to clarify something that was bothering him. So he turned to Kiyoshi and asked, "Why did she call me Daiki?"

Kiyoshi's brows shot up in surprise then sunk as he laughed good-naturedly. "She's unfamiliar with Japanese cultural mannerisms when addressing people. Born and raised here with third generation parents. Practically an American. In this country, the given name is used."

He didn't hesitate to scowl and chanced a peek at the principal, who sat patiently and unbothered. How, he did not understand. Being in a position where you felt deaf and mute to all those around you was becoming immeasurably frustrating.

"Well, I don't like it," he said.

Again Kiyoshi laughed. "I mean this without disrespect, but you'll find that the kids here are too accustomed to familiarization. You'll be hearing your name possibly until you graduate."

He repressed the urge to hang his head. Had he paid attention in middle school, he would have been prepared for this cultural idiosyncrasy. Now he would have to weather it with everyone he came into contact with and, until he learned to convey his distaste with it, he could do little to change it.

"I think you meant to say the kids are too ignorant."

Kiyoshi smiled.

The principal cleared her throat and both he and the gentle giant attended to her. She pulled back her sleeve to view her watch then shoved out her chair. He intercepted the signal, as did Kiyoshi, and both stood with her.

"You'll be his buddy until he acclimates to the school, Teppei," she said and Aomine withheld a sneer. "See him to his classes but don't skip your own."

The dope saluted her and they were ushered out of the office.

They paced the halls of the second level of the atrium—where administration was located. Beyond a chest-high barricade laid the lunchroom below where a series of retractable benches formed five orderly columns. Strips of red and black banded the wall at waist level, racing past locker stands and classroom entryways, all ruddy in color. Red tiles stretched on, though in a less saturated shade that gave a lukewarm feeling to the place.

Kiyoshi nudged his arm and curled his fingers beckoningly.

Aomine produced the schedule and handed it over. "Playing tour master?"

"They'd have to pay me," Kiyoshi smirked, eyes glued to the crumpled sheet. "And because I'm seventeen that would be child extortion. Think of me as a big brother."

"I hear they have self-help classes for those types of complexes, Kiyoshi."

The giant laughed. "Call me Teppei, please."

He scrunched his nose.

"Your choices are either Teppei or _oni-chan_."

Aomine groaned, head dipping back with a hint of frustration. Kiyoshi may act like a dope but clearly he was more clever than he let on, meting a dose of obstinance that warned Aomine _respect my culture and I'll respect yours_.

He lifted his head and sighed.

Kiyoshi's lips peeled back with ecstatic vigor.

The enthusiasm overload was starting to bog him down. How could a person smile so damn much? He decided he'd seen the last of them from this oaf today and engaging an emotionally draining day of academia while being the target of scrutiny, scorn, and biased observation was more tolerable.

So he bopped the lug's shoulder.

"Don't you have a job to do? Lead the way, Teppei. Room 219 isn't gonna find me."

. . .

8:25 AM

Kagami plowed the halls after descending to the ground floor, feet seeking the desired classroom. The hall pass clenched tight in his fist permitted his post-bell stroll. He threaded through the lunchroom, found an exit, and hugged a locker-lined wall bracketing the quad. Numbered portals broke the chain of compartments every forty feet, square porthole windows allowing a peek inside. He could easily have crossed the quad to reach his class on the other side. The terrace unraveled thirty-by-twenty yards and was dotted with towering birch and drooping oak, all slobbering with Spanish moss. Bunches of oleander and sprigs of firebush margined four intersecting pathways. Shy of a dozen park tables lay strewn about, their addition meant to preserve the turf from sustained abuse by students. But he needed time to cool down.

Aida's criticism weighed heavy on his mind.

How many times had he been reprimanded for Haizaki's aggression, his innocence questioned and testimony disregarded?

Too many.

He brought the hand not clutching the hall pass to palm his forehead, brushing his fringe aside.

His temper always had been a problem.

Especially when his attacker knew which buttons to push.

And Haizaki was a quick study.

A voice from the quad halted his thoughts and he stopped. "A little late, aren't you?"

Ambling across the lawn came a familiar face. Male, about his age with blond hair that capped the head in short spikes. Thin brows swept over narrow gray eyes and oval-rimmed glasses. The body was trimmed with lean muscle that suggested some form of athleticism. Kagami overshadowed him by half a head. Rung around the left sleeve of a charcoal graphic tee was a yellow armband imprinted with a large typeset A.

The captain of Arlington's varsity basketball team. Hyūga Junpei.

Kagami straightened as the captain neared.

"Not like you to play hooky, Taiga." The address was acceptable.

Hyūga was one of many second and third generation Japanese-Americans with little to no cultural attachment to their national heritage. A disposition Kagami understood well and was himself adjusted to. Few people, aside from school administrators, used his surname.

He sighed, "Yeah. Came into a little disturbance this morning."

Hyūga cocked a brow, appraising him curiously before homing in on his closed fist. He gestured to it and said, "Should I be concerned?"

Kagami shoved the slip into his pocket. "No. And shouldn't you be in class, Jun?"

A tiny wire of purplish white light jutted from Hyūga's crinkling eyes and Kagami flinched.

He tried to escape Hyūga's dissecting glare by diverting his eyes.

Needle-like pain pricked his neck and his hand clamped over the sting. Not again.

He glared at the captain. "Watch it, sparky."

No amusement filled Hyūga's stare. Only scorn.

Then he understood.

"Who told you?"

"Who said anyone had to?"

Kagami rolled his eyes. "Alright, Detective Conan. Explain your so-called findings."

"This isn't the first time I've seen you stride the halls with that melancholic self-loathing expression. So what happened?"

He really did not want to admit to punching Haizaki. That would only validate Aida retracting her accountability.

Hyūga's voice took on a demanding undertone as he called for Kagami's attention.

He grumbled indignantly, shrugging his bag higher. "Haizaki baited me and I hit him."

He tensed, eyes screwed shut, expecting another shock. School doctrine enforced heavy regulations on Apparitions, identified by color-coded armbands, to limit any expression of power during hours. The captain studied the restrictions of his breed and found a loophole. Hair-thin bolts were not expressly forbidden because little harm came from them.

Bullshit.

He cracked an eye open warily to see Hyūga's raised hand hovering before his face, middle finger cocked and loaded against a bowed thumb. A zing of electricity bit his forehead when the captain flicked him.

Kagami slapped Hyūga's hand then went to soothe the pain. "God dammit, will you stop that?"

"Quit disappointing me and I'll consider it."

"Like you've never been harassed by Haizaki."

Hyūga scowled, eyes flickering with insult. "You know I have."

Kagami pursed his lips. Right. Unsafe territory.

Hyūga deflated. "If you've any hope of making varsity, stay out of trouble. I'm not telling you to turn the other cheek, but don't give him your third strike either."

"Ken'll roast my ass before I get my third strike."

The captain chuckled and popped his knuckles on Kagami's shoulder. "Get to class."

He smiled and watched Hyūga's retreating form disappear into the portal he'd earlier used.

Strangely his temper had weakened but he paid it no mind.

He diverted to the nearest quad passage and smoothed the hall pass as he neared his first period class.

It would be okay.

Hyūga braced up and became impervious to Haizaki's torment.

And so would he.

. . .

East Arlington

8:30 AM

Akashi's concentration was interrupted by a soft vibration in his pocket. He maintained an air of diligence over a spread calculus textbook and surveyed the instructor's watch. The aging woman with a bob of thinning blonde-gray hair reclined in a plush swivel chair with a Styrofoam cup in one hand and a folded-open spiral notebook in the other. No immediate threat of detection. It was not his way to text in class, but it was rare to receive one while lessons were in session.

He fingered the device and brought it under the lip of the desk, sneaking cursory glances to access a new message.

It was from Junpei at Arlington high.

_Taiga got into it with Haizaki again. Looks like he fucked up his knuckles or something. Deal with him._

A displeased sigh passed through his nose. When would Taiga learn?

He bounced his eyes between the screen and pages laden with graphs and equations to thumb a response.

_I'll take care of it._

The phone was returned to his pocket. He wished he could say it had been a while since he had intervened on behalf of his brother's impetuous nature. Well, half-brother to be accurate. The circumstances of their relation were far from traditional and average. A product of suppressed affections, a culturally-inspired dedication to preserving commitment, and parental arbitration. But Kagami Kenshin overcame those obstacles and raised two boys from separate mothers whose only commonality was their unusual red hair. Age had been a factor that disrupted any chance of bonding as youths, Akashi's mature intellect was too advanced for an attention-starved Taiga to understand and adapt to. Akashi only made the effort when he learned of the black mark tarnishing Taiga's childhood. They did not possess the nuclear brother-brother relationship. But they were family.

He glossed the material laid out before him, interest lost. Four incidents had transpired since late August, all of which had been reported by Junpei and each time Akashi slid down off the fence and coerced Taiga to mind himself. He even offered friendly basketball scrimmages on their home court to drain what he believed to be a surcharge of energy. But something had his brother coiled tight.

Striking another student was a problem that he needed to mitigate quickly. Any aspirations of being recognized for professional basketball would disintegrate if his brother punched out every aggressor who triggered him.

His distant gaze found the windows towering on the other side of the room where sunlight faded in between splits in the clouds. Along the wall of pine and cypress he spotted a hawk scouring from a scraggly branch for its next meal.

Well there was an idea. A third party opinion _would_ help.

But he wouldn't seek the hawk.

Rather the hawk's keeper.

Again with stealth, he retrieved his cell phone, filtered through his contacts and found _Midorima Shintarō_.

His thumb skated across the keys.

_Meet me at the usual place for lunch. I need your ear._

* * *

**I wasn't going to include Akashi's part in this chapter, but it was relevant to Kagami's predictable stupidity. Don't ask me why but I enjoy the idea of Akashi and Kagami as brothers. (Not entirely because of the red hair, either.) For the same reasons delineated in _TWCH_, I kept Hyuuga's hair both short and blond.**


	5. Part One-04

**Have at least another three chapters in queue to publish. I don't know why I can't just compose one-shots instead of lengthy, complex-plotted monsters... So many things to double-check.**

* * *

Arlington

8:55 AM

Aomine's confidence was an impending force, fashioned from decades of trial and error and the understanding that failures were the true stepping stones to success and personal growth. Humiliation was a fleeting feeling. One he smashed down in the moments following defeat with a bold declaration of retribution. People attributed their own labels for it. Onerous. Arrogant. Egotistical. It was neither of those things.

Confidence.

That's what he carried in abundance and he was proud of it.

Except for this moment.

Classroom introductions were a regimented custom in Japan for transfer students. The student would stand before their peers like a prized slab of meat or a caged animal while the instructor advertised the circumstances of deportation and asked that everyone play nice. A stupid sentiment, really. Then the student is given the floor to speak their name and offer a tidbit about themselves after inscribing the kanji specific to their name.

That had yet to happen.

Teppei had chaperoned him to second period and eased up to a tall woman working a whiteboard with more of that unintelligible English nonsense. He'd opted to avoid the spotlight, hovering just outside the doorway while his classmates sauntered inside. A moment later he was gathered, the giant bid farewell, and he was stationed before a collective of nearly forty people. Anxiety simmered as the woman rattled on, making minute gestures his way while addressing the enraptured, confounded, and amused faces of her pupils.

Gawking was a primitive characteristic, he knew. To observe an unknown or novel thing with bemusement. An experience he was inured to, as the ace of his middle and high school basketball teams, where he'd performed for thousands of people beneath a halo of golden lights far too many times to count. Power forwards commanded the most attention on the court, between enemy players, referees, coaches, reserve players, and spectators. So the sensation of being watched, of being applauded for his outrageous skill or ridiculed for selfish ball play, had died out quickly. After years of being a show-pony scare tactic to rival schools, Aomine'd become desensitized to the idea of exploiting the extent of his effort. He had come to understand something all those years ago. From the first tweet of the whistle to the final call of the buzzer, he was on the job. A job that required him to entertain. Rivet attention. Inspire excitement. Playing only as efficient as necessary to secure a solid win.

Which made this new experience uncomfortable.

Because there was no task to accomplish. No end game.

He stood before an audience with absolutely nothing to provide or demonstrate. All of them staring at him expectantly.

The instructor called for him with that annoying social coziness.

"Daiki," she said. "Would you like to say a few words?"

He didn't know what she expected of him, either and had been too distracted to react to the familiar address of his given name. Instead he digressed to what he was accustomed to back home.

He gripped a blue Expo marker and scribbled out the kanji of his name on an available space near the marker tray. He turned to face the room, depositing the marker with a clack, and dipped his head, muttering the standard greeting for all new arrivals.

Whispers floated across the room and he tensed. He straightened his back and the humor and confusion contorting his peers' faces prickled his skin.

"So what, he's Chinese?"

"Why is he bowing?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Bet it says 'stupid Americans'."

"It says 'sushi,' moron."

He appreciated that none of them had attempted to directly question him but as they murmured amongst themselves, he realized that spending his reward so impulsively signed him up for a debilitating character assassination.

Being flayed by the commissioner? Disappointing but acceptable.

Suffering one of Tetsu's supreme passes? Not something he coveted, but he could tolerate it.

Overcoming a room full of petty teenagers mocking his failed grasp of situational awareness? Suddenly that impregnable confidence was crumbling.

And he had no way to stop it.

Kagami watched with masked irritation as the situation at the front of the room spiraled out of control. He hadn't expected to see the transfer student, the same boy whom he clipped shoulders with in admissions earlier that morning, introduced to his second period class. New students weren't a common occurrence and introductions even rarer. Exclusive to late term admissions, usually. But his interest had been piqued when Hendrickson revealed that the new kid was a Japanese native. Arlington hosted a boisterous Asiatic population, on account of the Yamato State established by the Fire Kingdom some few thousand years ago that ran from the Florida-Georgia line to Boca Raton. He was no stranger to Apparitions and gauged the late entry only to determine that he was too dark to be one of Pyros' kin. If anything, the burnt skin and dark hair and eyes suggested an Ice Apparition. Assuming he was an Apparition at all. He couldn't be certain, given that there was no color-coded armband announcing the fact.

The giggling of his classmates brought his thoughts to the present and he curled his lip.

Bunch of pricks.

The nasty look he got earlier when they bumped shoulders in passing a half hour ago suddenly made sense. Both of them were off to a bad start today.

He eyed the kanji on the board, read _Aomine Daiki_. According to Mrs. Hendrickson's synopsis, Aomine, eighteen years old, was a Tokyo native, sent overseas because of his father's military reassignment before completing his senior year in high school. A piece of information that only earned more ignorant quips. Kagami found it hard to believe that Aomine was the product of an ex-serviceman. Dressed in a bland black tee shirt, charcoal track pants, and, what looked through a jungle of obtrusive table legs and crossed ankles to be a worn pair of Jordans, he gathered that discipline and self-representation was something that went unreinforced. Not to mention that placing Aomine as a junior, rather than a senior, implied the guy was either academically inept or walked away from the commitment altogether. But he would withhold his reservations. First impressions, he'd learned long ago, hardly amounted to a person's true character. He recalled a saying his father'd told him. _The first face you show the world. The second face you show to your close friends and your family. The third face you never show anyone. It is the truest reflection of who you are_. He wasn't so certain about the third face, but he realized that many people, whether intentional or not, crafted masks designed to suit the expectations of strangers. Some succeeded in fostering friendships, others created a misleading set of personality traits that either deterred or attracted people. And not always the right ones. Kagami only understood the one face he utilized. Unbiased and programmed with honest responses. One that made no excuses with misinterpreted cues. How he meted his flaws and perfections was his privilege.

As was Aomine's.

Which meant if the guy wanted to come across as an impudent, nerve-wracked Asian kid who reveled in using complicated calligraphy as insults to American teenagers, then that was his right. Not that Kagami believed he was.

Except the silent disclosures had finally escalated to direct inquiries and Hendrickson was failing to silence the kids' curiosities. Not to mention the guy was looking downright frazzled, eyes screaming for a way out of this nightmare.

Aomine's scrunched brow and contorted mouth reminded Kagami of the tiger the local circus rolled through town with once a year. Display cages and tents would be erected in a suitably –sized shopping plaza parking lot. No admission, food, or drinks. Just an exhibition to shout humanity's success in capturing and containing wild animals. A mother tiger and her weaning cub were the main attraction. Kagami made a point to visit every night, heart burdened with remorse as he observed the feline pacing her narrow ten-by-five foot jail cell. Lips curled exposing blunted canines. Tail hung between her hocks, the tip lashing petulantly. When she would pass close he could hear her huffing breaths. A beast fettered to a cage and centered before a crowd riveted by the awe of such a natural wonder.

For stripes that it didn't ask for. Size that it was evolved to utilize beyond artificial boundaries. A presence meant to command respect but garnered amusement instead.

Aomine Daiki went from being a person to an attraction in an unprecedented thirty seconds.

Which, even if the guy had an arrogant look about him, wasn't right.

Kagami raised his hand, snapping his fingers to gain attention. Hendrickson allowed him to speak.

He bypassed her gaze, caught Aomine's stare and said, in Japanese, "Feelin' like a caged animal?"

The distress flooded from the other's face. "Whose deaf and mute."

Kagami looked to Hendrickson, digressing to English, "The guy's doing right by his culture. That there on the board is his name. Surname followed by given name. Which you're not supposed to call him, by the way. It's rude."

The teacher palmed her mouth, affronted and passed an apologetic look to Aomine. She composed herself and clarified the correction to his classmates. Murmurs passed around, muddled as Hendrickson spoke over them. "Never too late to learn about other cultures. Taiga, I'd like you to mentor Daiki for today. Help him understand what we're doing in here."

He caught the sneer on Aomine's face as she foolishly spoke his name and found amusement as she wrangled his attention to apologize once again. He understood that unlike his father not all Japanese immigrants were welcome to embracing Western social customs. He told himself to meet with and stress propriety to Hendrickson later as she began organizing the lesson planned for the day.

Aomine glided down the aisle, long legs carrying him to the open seat to Kagami's right.

They locked eyes as if debating to obey their instructor, both obviously having had a rough morning and in no mood for congeniality. But he reasoned that denying Aomine respect was out of character, since the guy hadn't done anything to warrant hostility. He tipped his chin to the desk and gestured to draw it near.

Aomine toed the table leg, mating the two desks. If the moment weren't soured by vicious scrutiny at the hands of pubescent sprats, Kagami might have found it comical how ridiculous Aomine looked folding himself into the chair. He contained himself and offered the other a share of his materials.

Some charity would do him good.


	6. Chapter 6

**Given that this chapter is content-heavy, I decided to glean it for tangible mistakes, then post it.**  
**Hope it's transparent!**

**FF doesn't allow inserted web addresses, so I had to truncate Kuroko's. Dammit.**

**EDIT: Corrected dates and times because my math blows. 1975 has become 1976.**

* * *

11:10 AM

Aomine's thumb hovered over the keypad of his slider phone. It was his third reissue. His primary through middle and high school in Japan had been a standard flip phone. With the Bureau in Russia, he obtained a bar model. Before departing to the States, commissioner Imayoshi provided him a slider. Not too different from what he was accustomed to and still analog, as he preferred it. His fingertips were too bulky for those tiny smartphone touch pads, anyway.

For the umpteenth time he raked the message he'd punched out after locating a secluded place to wait out the lunch period. As he'd found out from the impatient little imp possessing his third period teacher, remaining in the classroom for recess was forbidden. He sat behind a bank of classrooms just out of earshot of the babbling quad where he'd woven through a horde of bustling peers. He had moved quickly and efficiently to reduce detection. To their credit, everyone was so riveted to their own conversations that his journey was seamless. The prickly wall he reclined against was no substitute for the rooftop of Tōō Academy in Tokyo. But it was quiet and empty and it would have to do until he could vet other acceptable hangouts.

His finger slid to cover the backspace key, his confidence still recovering from earlier. Again he proofread the email.

_To: Tetsu (sixthman31)_

_Sub: [Empty]_

_Hey. How're you? You wouldn't believe this, but I've been such a good boy at the Bureau that Imayoshi sucked up to the Kaizer and they offered me some paid vacation. They're letting me finish out high school but while I'm on paid suspension in America, they're asking me to help weed out Pyros' new body. Pretty crazy that after so long the paragon's signature suddenly spikes up like that. I know it wouldn't mean much for me to continue school after thirty some-odd years but I know she wouldn't have let me live down being a drop out. And I know I shouldn't have been so stupid before and it means nothing now but I'm sorry. So very sorry. For everything. I need you to know that I never would have_

His heart clenched uncomfortably and he slid the device closed. He pressed the cancel button—a collapsed handset—and an alert popped up. This message has been saved as a draft, the unit announced. When it disappeared, he studied his mail draft box laden with a bevy of other unfinished correspondences. All addressed to Tetsu. He'd first touched American soil five days ago and spent the downtime while the commissioner sold his doctored information to his chosen institution attempting to diagram a proper email. He scrolled down, gleaming the introductory bits to each conversation and that ugly self-deprecating feeling twisted his gut.

He couldn't blame Tetsu. He was stupid and selfish and a freakin' idiot. And though he knew he did not deserve it, he hoped that, one day before he died, Tetsu would forgive him. Somehow.

It'd been a while since they'd spoken but it hadn't stopped him from wanting to apprise his old friend of his improvements. He'd come a long way from the bastard he became in middle school and the later-evolved lone wolf he instigated in high school. And he wanted Tetsu to know that he'd changed. If only he could summon up the nerve to send a damn email.

The hand holding the device dropped to this lap and he rolled his head onto his shoulder, breathing an exasperated groan. What the hell was wrong with him?

Aomine started as the phone chirped repeatedly and it took him a few seconds to realize someone was calling him.

He brought the receiver to his ear. "Yeah?"

"You don't have to sound so annoyed, Aominecchi," came a familiar pout.

"Kise?"

"Wow, did you even look at the display before you answered? What happened to that ringtone I assigned for myself on your phone?"

He snickered, Kise's voice flooding out his dismal thoughts. "New phone, idiot. America doesn't support Japanese phones, let alone Russian models."

Which brought to light a question. How did Kise retrieve his new number? Perhaps if he allowed the blond to yammer long enough, he'd find out how his contact information was solicited.

Kise gasped dramatically. "No way, you're in America? How'd you swing that?"

Aomine pulled the device from his ear and the sensor brightened the screen to reveal the time. 11:15 AM. "Why're you still up? Don't you have work tomorrow?"

"Why do you ask so many questions?"

"Kise," he warned.

"I may have had one coffee too many and I can't sleep. And I may have heard from a few sources how an upstanding Bureau detective earned himself a generous gift from Casimir's commissioner and the Kaizer."

There it was. He may not be a person-of-interest who warranted a network of lies to protect his whereabouts, but privileges awarded by the Kaizer were not broadcasted. Especially when the awardee was a re-institutionalized man like himself. He had an idea of how his old friend attained his phone number. And he had to say he was impressed at the depth of Kise's sleuthing.

"You know, you kiss a lot of ass for pretending to be a straight man," he said.

Working as a model and living before a camera lens facilitated how easily Kise was accepted as a popular idol in Japan despite that his fair features did nothing to represent the people of his country. Especially if fabricating a false sexual identity was part of the job description. By now, Aomine believed that leading the double life had become as routine for Kise as brushing his teeth in the morning. It hadn't been in middle school, though. Back when they had been romantically involved. Just two dumb kids riding the rails of their prepubescent hormones and stumbling to avoid contact in public. Tolerating a society's dismissal of anything other than blatant heterosexuality for the sake of brightening young women's lives was something Aomine'd secretly admired about his old friend. Had Kise expatriated and returned to his motherland to be among other Wind Apparitions, freedom of romantic pursuit beyond sex and gender would not be a problem.

But the blond was anything if not dedicated then.

So the same would stand true today.

Kise's voice adopted a familiar playfulness. "I'm hurt, Aominecchi. I have connections, you know."

He could not resist. "However illicit they may be."

"What, have you investigated them?"

"No, but now I might."

"Don't abuse your badge," Kise scolded.

Aomine laughed, his joviality roping the other along. Then the moment deflated.

"So, what did you hear?" he asked.

He heard some rustling and imagined his friend curled up under the sheets looking much like a caterpillar breaching its cocoon.

"Just that you were put on paid vacation and shipped off to the United States. Imayoshi's not so forthcoming for the guy that signs his daughter's magazines."

Of course the leak was Imayoshi. As a close friend and long-time co-worker of his father, Imayoshi was intimately aware of Aomine's upbringing. Including his relationship with Kise. Reaching the commissioner from beyond the country required careful string-pulling and favors rendered, the countermeasures erected to sift out potential threats and provide a modicum of privacy. Doling out something as harmless as a phone number did not fall under the category of national security. Not when every other investigator, ones far more seasoned than he, was sniffing out the same scent he was.

"More of that ass kissing," he muttered.

"So where are you? What's it like?"

He contemplated venting about the morning he'd had. Cornrows' overbearing exposition followed by a detour to meeting a tiny fierce woman and her goliath assistant all concluded with uncomfortable repeat introductions to his classmates. It was a spinning tale, to say the least. But he wasn't sure he was ready to divulge the emotional strain he'd sustained so far because Kise couldn't sympathize. His friend was a Tokyo native like himself, stationed in Kanagawa prefecture. Referring to Kise as a social butterfly wasn't even remotely acceptable. The guy started flapping his lips before he cut his first tooth and hadn't stopped since. Loved for his good looks and impeccable adaption to any skill he attempted, Kise was considered a treasure to be protected by just about everyone he came into contact with. He adored his friends, demonstrating it with an honorific that most awardees hated but adapted to. They'd attended Teikō together with Tetsu and despite Aomine's downward spiral, he was happy to call Kise his friend.

But Kise Ryouta was accepted. His blond hair and amber eyes went without question. No one whispered about his one pierced ear or gossiped about his superior height. Even if the ditz walked into a situation he didn't naturally fit into, accommodations would be made so he was comfortable.

Aomine was never allowed that privilege.

He decided to shorthand it. "Florida's pretty nice. Still hot even for October. No uniforms in the public schools here and apparently there's a demand for police officers to secure the buildings."

Kise hummed thoughtfully. "I always heard that Americans are rowdy. But police?"

"I'm not gonna bother understanding it. I'm here to finish high school not to unlock the psychology of state-reinforced conformity."

The line went quiet and he wondered if he should break it.

"That's great, Aominecchi. Only one more year to go, right? I'm so excited."

He scoffed and scratched his nails through his short hair. "Don't be. American teenagers have four years of high school, not three and won't graduate until late May. Since I didn't complete my senior year there, and my grades weren't so dazzling, they enrolled me as a junior here instead of a senior."

Silence again. Then, "Maybe that's why cops are there."

He thought back to Cornrows' bruised mug. If kids were throwing punches at each other in the hallways, then maybe.

"So," Kise said. "Have you spoken to Kurokocchi since you got out?"

He gripped the phone hard, staring into his lap. That was not something he'd thought about in the last six years. And for good reason. Pinning the phone against his shoulder, he scrunched up the sleeve of his right arm. Hidden on the inside of his bicep was a shady tattoo of a little girl. A bust in profile, with hands raised in prayer, the index fingers pressed to the lips. Infantile wings peeked through long whipping hair. Faded strokes of yellow dashed the petals of the child's flower crown, slipping forward on the brow though the head was tipped up as if seeking an invisible sky. His thumb caressed the girl's ink-dusted cheek and his chest hollowed as the memory threatened to invade him.

He'd never planned on accenting his body. It was meaningless and superficial, he'd thought. Abusing the body's natural beauty with the blemish of ink, caricatures of misused symbols and impulsive obsessions. History, what portion he'd actually remembered, provided that ink was earned for accomplishing a deed, whether nefarious or honorable. Meant to convey a message of one's status or achievements. Or to boast one's crimes. And that's what this little girl meant, didn't it?

He didn't have to think hard.

Thirty years in Casimir Penitentiary told him so.

He thought back to what Imayoshi had said. _Your penance has been satisfied._

Hardly. His sin was unforgiveable and so long as he carried her on his arm, he would never be so naïve as to believe it could be.

"Aominecchi."

The soft interruption jarred him back to reality and he adjusted the sleeve to conceal the mark.

"I heard you, baka." He hadn't meant to let irritation to wiggle into his voice.

If the insult affronted Kise, the other didn't reveal it. "He transferred back then, you know. To Kaijō with me."

That seemed out of character for Tetsu. Definitely not something that his parents and grandmother would have allowed, given that Kanagawa lay just short of an hour from Tokyo. And that was by car, which Aomine knew Tetsu's parents couldn't have afforded to shuttle him to and fro in, as they were working people themselves. Was Tetsu living with Kise now?

As if sensing his curiosity, Kise continued on, saying, "He'd said staying at Tōō was painful."

No shit.

"Does he still play?"

"Still a sixth man on the weekends."

He heard the smile and wanted his friend to elaborate but remained quiet. Knowing that Tetsu hadn't lost his love of the sport pleased him. The only thing they had ever mutually understood, agreed upon, and were best compatible together at was basketball and to think that his own emotional disharmonies would have dissuaded his friend from ever picking up a ball again would have crushed him.

"The captain takes his side and lets him punch me if I get too noisy," Kise was saying and he wanted to smirk at the applied sneer but couldn't.

_Staying at Tōō was too painful._

Imayoshi's words came to mind again and he scowled.

"Aominecchi."

"What?"

"To answer your hidden question, yes. Kurokocchi is living with me in Kanagawa. Not because he's running away from you or Momocchi in Tokyo." The voice deepened, carrying a depressed lilt. "He almost dropped out , y'know. He was really upset and said he felt alone, even around the guys on the team. I mean, he's still pretty reserved here but he's doing exactly what you are now. Going through the motions and honoring his promise to Momocchi. Just like you."

He wanted to speak but couldn't find his tongue, pressing it against the roof of his mouth to suppress welling emotion.

"I'm happy for your successes, Aominecchi. But if you can, try reconnecting with Kurokocchi."

He hummed affirmatively.

Kise's usual buoyancy returned. "Promise you'll stay out of trouble and I might send you some of the new Mai-chan photobooks that have come out over the last thirty-six years."

He doubted Horikita Mai was still posing, but said anyway, "Might, my ass. You better."

Kise chuckled. "Oyasumi, Aominecchi."

The line clicked off.

Feelings conflicted inside him as he lowered the phone, watching the screen darken the email draft box that the call interrupted. He'd been building the cache for the last six years and always debated with himself about his right to send them. Bad blood remained between he and Tetsu and they spoke little after that afternoon in 1976.

The only black mark that existed on Aomine's record.

He didn't want to disappoint Kise. But he still couldn't overcome the anxiety that came from hovering over the send key and the questions that came pouring with it.

_What if he ignores it?_

_What will he say?_

_Does he hate me?_

Aomine didn't want to know.

And if he didn't reach Tetsu, he never would.

...

11:30 PM

October 18, 2012

Kuroko padded to the bedroom next door. He'd turned in shortly after dinner, completely exhausted from a strenuous afternoon of endurance drills. Once the weekend rolled around, he hung up his apron and pressed Kanagawa Daycare polo and donned the jersey of the neighborhood association basketball team. Retired from reigning Kaijo's Blue Elites for thirty years, coach Takeuchi, with the interest of a dozen veteran players, corralled together a team. Practices were scheduled every weekend, pickup games decided through cooperation with other associations in the prefecture. Feelings of post-Winter Cup glory snowballed the effort of preserving high school friendships and maintaining contact into a public competition. Insufficient practices demanded a short season between a mutually agreed tournament once a year, to be held in the fall. Coaches with glowing reputations pulled the necessary strings to allow the use of their home school courts when appropriate. Those not as ingratiated with their former supervisors were deferred to outdoor courts. Retaining their championed title, the Blue Elites were due to face off last year's victor in the coming weeks and drill intensity had escalated. The coach's grandson, an auger-eyed fellow, suggested sourcing individual weaknesses and striving to improve them. Team play had been Kaijo's dogma, and little more than thirty years later it continued to dominate.

Poor endurance was always Kuroko's greatest inadequacy and for the sake of completing more than one quarter simultaneously, he'd been tested with several exercises designed to prime his legs and lungs for the task. Even as a sixth man at Teiko, a starter at Tōō, and a regular at Kanagawa University, his body was frail. But he pushed and exceeded his own limitations to the point of nausea and collapse. To some his dedication was misguided. To others impressive and they opened the doors necessary for him to transform from an unimportant third-stringer to a starting player.

He'd been asleep for little over three hours. Until snippets of his neighbor's animated conversation breached the wall separating their rooms and roused him. Still bleary with fatigue, he'd rolled over to read the glaring red light of his alarm clock. Annoyance grabbed him instantly. What the hell was Kise doing awake, on the phone, at this hour?

If he was regaling the captain with another fan encounter, Kuroko was not bailing him out of the consequences again. Kasamatsu didn't suffer that nonsense in high school and definitely wouldn't now.

He rapped his knuckles on the door before nudging it open. The living arrangement was old enough to allow the intrusion, Kise's persistence wearing down Kuroko's reservations. He still sustained the courtesy to one's privacy. Something his friend of forty-two years did not.

"Kise-kun, I'm trying to sleep."

The blond poked his head up from a lumpy comforter, no trace of fatigue upon his eyes. An apologetic smile appeared and Kise rolled and sat up.

"Sorry, Kurokocchi."

"You'll make Kasamatsu-san angry if you pester him." Why was he wasting time chiding him?

Kise waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not that stupid."

He said nothing, crossing his arms and leaning on the doorjamb.

He allowed the silent question of then who was it to hang in the air until Kise perceived it.

But the blond simply stared back.

He frowned. "You going to share who it was?"

Kise's expression faltered for a moment as if surprised by the inquiry, then relaxed as he said, "Aominecchi."

Did he hear right?

The blond seemed to sense his doubt and wiggled his phone in display. "Heard from a friend that he was given paid vacation and a reassignment. I just called to corroborate because it's hard to believe Aominecchi would work hard for anything outside of basketball."

"Is that right?" he said, disappointed that he couldn't dial interest into his tone.

He was too distracted by his racing thoughts.

Last he'd understood it his old friend was working with the Bureau in Casimir, the Lightning's longstanding Russian capital. Six years ago after his release from the penitentiary. When had Aomine been transferred? Did something happen? Why hadn't Aomine told him?

He stopped himself there, knowing he was out of line. He knew damn well why he'd fallen out of touch with the other.

That afternoon in 1976. A day that never left him. It was one of few moments when Kuroko had lost himself to his emotions and only after he'd pulled back and reflected did he understand how he'd impugned Aomine's feelings. By then it was too late to matter. He and Aomine were half a continent apart with no means of contact. Feelings were raw and jumbled and the thought of seeing the other beyond a plate-glass barrier in a prison jumper discouraged Kuroko. All he'd wanted then was for Aomine to say something. Even if Kuroko became the object of blame for his friend's incarceration. Anything. He knew better, though. He resolved, then, that time would disintegrate the memory of their association and somehow absolve him of his guilt. It did not and he lived every day for the last six years since he heard of his friend's return to Casimir degrading his cowardice.

"He's in America now." He refocused his attention on Kise, seeing that his roommate appeared unaffected by his feint. "Says he's decided to use his reward from commissioner Imayoshi and the Kaizer to finish high school."

Aomine had earned such an honor? Impressive.

No. It was fantastic news.

And more than he ever would have expected out of his old friend.

But were they to remain friends, even now?

Kise's voice dipped to a whisper. "How long has it been?"

Kuroko's eyes fell onto a pair of silk pajamas crumpled on the floor as he retraced the time, finding his chest squeezing in shame. "Far longer than I should have allowed."

"I'll give you his new phone address."

His gaze shot up. No mischief shone in the blond's eyes and nothing about his face betrayed the declaration as a joke. In that same moment, he was both relieved and apprehensive. He would be lying if he said he hadn't imagined a reality where he and Aomine reconciled, overcoming the gloom of their past. Yet there were also times where he simulated the antitheses of their reunion. Wherein his old friend would disparage Kuroko for his selfishness and for perpetuating their separation by victimizing himself. There were nights where he stressed himself into unbearable headaches, only able to find sleep after nursing a cup of chamomile tea. Sometimes Kise would assist by stroking his hair as the drink's soporific effects took hold. Never speaking. Understanding the source of Kuroko's pain yet allowing him to cope without unwanted interference.

"I still have it," he mumbled, unable to keep eye contact with Kise.

He couldn't allow his friend to read through him. He was not prepared to answer the series of questions to be provoked by Kise's curiosity. A deep breath steeled his nerves and he pushed off the doorjamb.

"Get some sleep," he said, grasping the doorknob. "I'm not making excuses for you tomorrow if Kasamatsu-san rails your poor performance during practice."

Kise moaned dramatically and collapsed onto his pillows, long arms falling open. "Don't say that."

"Good night, Kise-kun."

Before he sealed the door he heard a garbled, "Night, Kurokocchi," as his friend burrowed into the sheets.

When he reentered his bedroom and returned to the tepid warmth he'd left behind, he knew sleep would not come easy.

His mind was swimming with uncertainty.

For years the guilt of what he'd done to Aomine trapped him in a fantasy where he was reviled in his old friend's every thought as an indelible anathema. He was haunted that he'd burnt that bridge, abandoned on a desolate island within a vast sea. Forever isolated from the mainland to be ravaged by time. But vestigial supports remained, weathered posts and weakened planks anchored by frayed tethers taunted by the waves to follow but did not obey.

And maybe that was a sign.

That Kuroko could still salvage the wreckage and rebuild what he thought he'd destroyed.

Kise championed a similar situation, when his and Aomine's relationship was challenged with subjectivity and conceit. Time and maturity had allowed wounds to heal and feelings to evolve. It was Kise that took the first step to assessing the damage, to confront Aomine of their dissolution. Perhaps it was the blond's silver tongue or the result of a shady bribe, but they maintained their friendship. The past did not matter and it was buried.

And that's all Kuroko wanted now.

For Aomine to be back in his life.

As his best friend.


End file.
